


Sunday Dinner for Three

by caliecat



Series: Jerseytude [3]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Bromance, Cooking, Family, Food, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caliecat/pseuds/caliecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny and Grace help Steve get real Jersey up in the beach house. Part 3 of the Jerseytude trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Dinner for Three

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a simple sequel and took a sharp U-turn to somewhere else entirely. It has a little bit of a lot of things including the proverbial kitchen sink. And it's my longest one yet, because once Danny finally showed me his list, we were both blindsided by what happened next.

"Yo! Anyone home?"

Steve lifted his head from the catalog of auto parts, torn between relief and annoyance.  

He'd never admit it to his team but he wasn't crazy about weekends. He was accustomed to the constant presence of others, first in the service and now in his new job. The empty stillness of this house often unsettled him, leaving him feeling lost and uncertain during the long hours between Friday night and Monday morning. At least it was already Sunday afternoon. Only one more day to go.

"Come on, McGarrett, I know you're in there."

On the other hand, it had been a rough week and he didn't have the energy to deal with whatever was responsible for the irritation he heard in Danny's voice. Not like he could stop him anyway. Slamming the catalog shut, he bowed to the inevitable.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." He ambled into the main room to find Danny standing in the front doorway, an enormous box in his arms and an exasperated look on his face. "Is this your new trick, forcing me to actually come to the door to greet you like you're some kind of—Grace!"

He stepped on his next words just in time as her head peeked out from behind her father, a shy smile on her face.

"Hi Steve!" She pushed into the room, lugging a large shopping bag. "We brought you a present."

"A present?" He lit up with surprised pleasure until he stole another glance at Danny's box. Right, Charlie Brown and the football, like he was going to fall for _that_ again. And in front of Grace, too, that was cruel.

"Nice try, Danny. Who's it from this time, UPS or FedEx?"

By now Grace was standing in front of him, craning her neck to search his face with a perplexed frown. "Who are they? _We_ brought you a gift, me and Daddy."

One look at Danny's stormy expression and he dropped to his knees. "Then thank you, Grace, that's very sweet of you. And your dad."

She beamed back at him, her entire heart in her eyes. What a beauty she was. Danny sure was going to have his hands full in a few years. He'd pay good money to be there when Grace brought home her first prom date.

He gently took the bag from her and followed them into the kitchen. Danny dropped the box to the floor by the small wooden table. Steve poked at it with his foot, hearing something inside rattle. "Is that my present?"

"That's for later," Grace answered. "First take this."

She reached into her bag and handed Steve a neatly rolled bundle. Unfurled, it revealed itself to be an apron splashed with a gaudy and distinctly un-tropical green and red print. "Kiss The Cook" was stamped across the front, along with what appeared to be a tipped wine glass holding bright purple grapes.

He frowned at it, baffled. "What—what is this? It looks like something—"

"Grace would pick out for you," Danny finished for him with another pointed look.

"I thought you'd like it," she said in a small voice.

He suddenly felt nauseous. "I do, I love it. It's perfect. Really. Thank you. Thank you very—"

"Good, then I'll help you put it on." She was smiling again, good.

He crouched down and bowed his head obligingly so she could reach up and wrap the collar around his neck, her small fingers tickling his nape, then turned so she could tie the strings. When he stood back up he realized the apron's hem fell well past his knees. "Uh, this is a little big, isn't it?"

Danny snorted. "They had two sizes, one for normal people and one for gigantic freaks, so guess which one we bought?"

Grace slapped his arm. "Daddy, that's mean!" But she was laughing too.

Fine, he could take a joke despite what Danny thought. Because he did, in fact, possess a sense of humor, albeit one more sophisticated than Danny's sophomoric style. He mustered a weak smile.

"Funny. So why the apron? Don't get me wrong, it's nice and all, but—"

"Because you're going to make us a big Sunday dinner!" Grace was lit up like a firecracker, looking like she was about to burst with excitement.

He felt the first twinges of a four-alarm headache.

"What—wait, I'm going to do _what_?" He narrowed his eyes at Danny, as this was no doubt his idea. "I was kind of looking forward to kicking back tonight, and, you know, _relaxing_. By myself. _Alone_."

"Your plans have changed. Tonight you are going to learn how to prepare the Williams family recipe for sausage and peppers." Danny closed his eyes and moaned with pleasure. "So good you'll think you died and woke up in heaven."

"It's _good_ ," Grace agreed, eyes wide and serious.

"You know Danny, your food's fine, but if I want Italian I'll get it from that take-out place on the corner, I really don't need to—"

"Daddy's won _awards_ ," Grace stated with considerable heat. "He has a _trophy_." She whipped around to her father. "Can we bring it next time so Steve can see it?"

"I'm sure he'd like that, sweetie," Danny said evenly, his raised eyebrows telegraphing a clear warning. _Go ahead McGarrett, are you seriously gonna try and fuck with my little girl's heart?_

Great, now both of them were wound up. "I'd love to see that sometime," he said to Grace, and got a suspicious glare in response. "But maybe this isn't the best night for—"

"You wanted Jersey, right?" Danny stepped into his face and grabbed a fistful of that ridiculous apron, twisting until the collar dug into his neck. "I'll give you Jersey, I'll give you so much Jersey your _head_ will be spinning when I'm done with you."

He forced Danny's hand down. "That doesn't even make sense—"

"Or would you prefer a plate of _poke_ , maybe with a side of Spam? And three pineapples?"

Oh yeah, _that_. That was _weeks_ ago, but Danny was like a freaking pit bull with a bone.

His cheeks started to burn and he felt nauseous again.

"Steve?" He looked down and there was Grace, staring up at him with her head cocked and one hand on her hip, a perfect miniature Danny. "Steeeve. Please? It'll be fun."

He absently fingered the apron's stiff fabric as he shifted his gaze between them, one face eager and hopeful, the other set in stubborn determination. And weighed the potential humiliation of placing himself at their mercy against the dull certainty of another frozen dinner in front of the TV, searching for a military program or sports event to fill the hours until he was tired enough to sleep.

No contest. He knew when he was outflanked and raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, fine, we'll make dinner. Now what's in the box?"

" _You'll_ make dinner, and we'll get to that," Danny said, fractionally calmer now. "First, we cut the peppers."

Good, he liked cutting things.

Grace reached into her bag again and withdrew a sack of bell peppers. "We got these yesterday at the Farmer's Market," she said proudly, holding them out to him. "Here."

He took them with a smile and set them on the table next to the cutting board. "These are beautiful, Grace." And they were, glowing like jewels in bright shades of green, red and yellow. 

"We washed them so you all you have to do is cut them. I'll keep you company." She let Danny give her a boost up so she could sit on the edge of the table next to Steve.

"Thank you," he said, and this time she smiled back, so at least one Williams was on his side again. He steadied the first pepper on the board with his left hand and reached back into the tool drawer with his right for his favorite knife. Gripping it tightly, he drew back his arm and then snapped his wrist down in a quick sharp blow. _Thwack!_ The two pepper halves fell neatly apart.

Grace yelped in his ear and then Danny was grasping his wrist, hard and tight, as he brought his arm up for the next stroke.

"What the – are you _crazy_? Are you clinically _insane_?" Danny shook Steve's arm as he yelled in his face. "You just scared the _death_ out of my little girl." Grace definitely looked alarmed, with her huge eyes and mouth shaped like a big O.

Big knife, little girl. Maybe not the smartest move. They never taught you that stuff in SEALs training. He opened his mouth to apologize, but she curled away from him, her shoulders tucked up around her ears.

 _Shit shit shit_. First thing tomorrow he'd drive up to the North Shore to that surf shop with all the kid's stuff, the one with the big stuffed dolphin hanging from the ceiling and the pink—

"Hey!" Danny was still holding his wrist. "What _is_ that thing?"

He blinked and refocused. "What? This is my knife, I use it for—"

"That's not a knife, it's a machete!" Danny free arm pantomimed cutting a swath through the brush. "You use it to hack through jungles, not cut innocent vegetables!"

Steve pulled out of Danny's hold and examined his prized possession with a loving eye. So maybe it was a little larger than strictly necessary for this task, but it was effective and he liked using it. And the SEAL logo embossed on the handle was always reassuring on a sharp instrument. 

"Danny, this is a great knife, it cuts right through bones—"

"That's it, you're done." Danny clapped both hands over Grace's ears. "No one needs to hear this, okay, no one cares about the assassins you killed with that freaking monstrosity. Now put it down and get a proper knife like normal people use!" 

"It's not a machete," he grumbled, but complied anyway, going back to the knife block on the counter three times before Danny nodded his approval at one of the smaller ones. He hefted its weight in his palm, then ran his finger lightly over the blade. It was honed to a razor-sharp edge, deadly in the right hands, maybe even perfect for a field tracheotomy. He'd have to keep that in mind, he could always use—

"McGarrett!" Danny scowled at him. "You're scaring the children."  

At his side, Grace eyed the knife with caution. "Sorry—"

"Cut the pepper!"

 _"Fine."_ He started on the first half, carefully slicing it into matchsticks like they did on that cooking show he saw once.

"No, not like that!"

He snapped his head up. " _Now_ what's the problem?"

"That's too small. You can't cut them that way." Danny held his thumb and forefinger together, then spread them out infinitesimally wider. " _This_ is what they should look like. Haven't you ever had sausage and peppers before?"

Anger flared as he jabbed the knife at Danny. "Look, if you don't like how I'm doing this, maybe _you_ should take over and—"

" _You're_ supposed to be making _us_ dinner, remember?" Danny threw out his arms, looking equally pissed. "As I recall, you couldn't _wait_ to get your hands on my cooking. Well now the tables have turned, my friend, and you can—"

"And you can shut up!" He waved the knife in Danny's face for emphasis. "You can—"

"I can show you," Grace piped up next to Steve. "If you want."

He had almost forgotten she was there. Her head was tilted on her shoulder, her lower lip caught between her teeth and an uncertain smile on her face. His chest ached at the thought of causing her any more distress. He slowly lowered the knife to the cutting board.

"Um, that would be great, Grace, if...." He waited for Danny's reluctant nod before finishing. "Yes, thank you, I would very much like for you to show me." He gave her a tentative smile back, hoping it wasn't one of the scary ones that Danny was always harping on him about.

"Okay," she said, with a genuine grin this time. "Here, like this." She sidled closer and put her soft, warm little hand over his, steering the knife into the right position before pushing downward, urging him to cut. "Go ahead, that looks good."

He pressed down firmly and split the pepper into a neat strip, earning a cheer from Grace and a muttered "Humph" from Danny.  After a few minutes, he started to relax.

They settled into a rhythm, her hand resting atop his while he let her think she was guiding him. It felt oddly familiar, like the wisp of a dream he couldn't quite grasp, and something about it made his heart feel too big for his chest.

Gradually, the bowl filled with peppers until the last one was finally cut. _Mission accomplished._ He felt ridiculously satisfied as he admired his handiwork. Grace gifted him with a celebratory fist bump along with another cheer. It was high school all over again, fourth down and in for the goal.

He smoothed his hands down the apron, removing the last of the moisture from the peppers, then looked to Danny, eager for his next assignment. "What now?"

"Now," Danny said, "we heat the oil. Get out a frying pan and turn it up to medium."

Steve crouched down and searched through his lower cabinet for a suitable pan. He caught himself at the last second and held it up for Danny's inspection before he placed it on the stove. Once the burner was set he pulled a bottle from the upper cabinet, unscrewed the cap and started to pour. "Okay, so how much—"

"Ho!" Danny grabbed his wrist again just as the first few drops were falling. "Let me see that."

What could possibly be wrong now? Steve handed him the bottle and watched his face screw up in disbelief. "Danny, it's oil, you said you wanted oil so I got—"

"You can't use this, what's the matter with you?"

"What?" His stomach felt like something was gnawing in there again.

"Let's see." Danny began reading the label in a mocking sing-song voice. "Oil of Aloha. Macadamia nut. Omega six fatty acids. _Nutty_." He shot a glare at Steve. "Oh it's nutty all right." Grace laughed at that.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck and wished it were the next morning. "You know what Danny, I'm getting tired of—"

"E-V-O-O, Steven," Danny said with weary patience. "Extra-virgin olive oil. That's _all_ you ever use for Italian cooking. Anything else is an abomination."

"Well I'm sorry if I don't have—"

"Luckily, I didn't trust you so we brought our own." Danny finally opened the enormous box at his feet and plucked a bottle from its depths.

Didn't _trust_ him? "What the—what is _that_ supposed to mean? I've run _classified missions_ in countries you never heard of, don't tell me—"

"And you think _I'm_ sensitive?" Danny laughed in his face. "Just take the bottle and trust _me_ on this one."

He snatched it from Danny's hand, making his displeasure clear. Except once he examined it, he had to admit it actually looked good. Colorful label written in Italian script, a picture of what looked like an olive grove on the front and creamy green-gold oil inside.  He removed the cap and inhaled, savoring the rich fruity aroma.

Okay, he could be the big man here. "Nice, it smells nice."

"Only the best for Gracie and me, right, Monkey?"

"Right, Daddy!" She wrinkled her nose and pointed at the stove. "Steve, your pan is smoking."

 _Shit._ He grabbed the handle and slid it off the burner, letting it cool a minute before he held the bottle of olive oil over it and started pouring again. "Tell me when."

"When!" Grace and Danny shouted in unison after about a half-inch covered the bottom.

He moved the pan back to the burner and swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Good, good, I got this. What's next?"

"While that's heating, why don't you go ahead and open the tomatoes." Danny lifted a large can from the box and placed it on the counter. It had a bright white label with pictures of long skinny tomatoes. Another, smaller can of tomato paste followed and then a large plastic container.

Steve lifted the corner of its lid and inhaled. "Mmm, this is the sausage?"

"Yes, _Detective_ , that's the sausage. Sweet fennel sausage, in fact. So good it will bring tears to your eyes."

"It's already cooked."

"Yes...?"

"We're not cooking any meat?"

"You have enough to handle tonight. Maybe next time."

"But I _like_ cooking meat, I'm very skilled at it—"

"For God's sake, would you please shut up and open the tomatoes!" The curses went unsaid but Steve heard them all the same.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grace shake her head in dismay. " _Fine_ , just stop _nagging_ me." He went back to the tool drawer for what he needed, then set the larger can in front of him and bent to his task.

This time, he didn't even get a chance to start before Danny was in his face and yelling again.

"You're an utter _Neanderthal_ , do you know that?" He ripped the tools from Steve's hands. "This," he said, waving the first one in Steve's face, "appears to be a hammer. And this,"—the second one came up—"appears to be a chisel. Who in their right mind uses _workshop tools_ to open a can of tomatoes?" Behind them, Grace shrieked with laughter.

"It's not a chisel, Danny, it's for fixing rotor blades in the field when—"

"Shut up!" Danny's face was flushed and his eyes sparked fire. "That's not even the point! You are not normal. There is something seriously wrong with you. I begged you to get therapy and now—"

"I don't _have_ a can opener, okay?" Steve shouted in frustration. "I don't have a _lot_ of things I'm supposed to have." Pain tightened his throat. "Excuse me if after General Pak's fun little visit I haven't had time to replace everything yet."

He crossed his arms tight over his heart and pushed down the hurt welling up inside. Danny was supposed to have his back, not attack him in his own kitchen. That betrayal stung, hard and deep.

Why couldn't Danny at least give him credit for trying? Or understand how hard this was for him?

It's not like there had been a lot of opportunity to hone his cooking skills over the last fifteen years. Or that he felt much like learning after finally moving back into this empty house, with a ghost living in every room.  

He dropped his burning eyes from Danny's shocked gaze, remembering his last truly happy memory of cooking here, when his mother used to let him help make the pot roast for Sunday dinner. His special job was cutting the carrots, rolling them around on the wooden board until he found the perfect angle, then slicing them into precise chunks under her warm approval.  When dinner was ready, she let him assemble everything on the sturdy, wide platter, then proudly carry it out to the dining room table as she trailed in his wake with the basket of hot rolls.

 _Look what our Steve made,_ she would say, in her lilting voice that sounded like music....

But that was a lifetime ago. What was the point of thinking about it now? He swiped his eyes with a trembling hand, willing the memories to return to the past where they belonged.

Gradually, he became aware of Danny's sharp scrutiny and finally risked a glance up at him through damp lashes.

For a long moment, Danny searched his face, the only sound in the room their quiet breathing. Then he scrubbed a hand over his own and sighed deeply.

"Okay," he said, much softer than before, "go ahead and do it your way. But please put them in the sink first so you don't make a mess everywhere."

Steve took a long, calming breath and forced back some of his composure. "Good idea." He should have thought of that one himself.

After moving his base of operation to the sink, he started opening the first can, careful to move slowly enough to avoid popping the lid. Behind him, Danny was rustling something else out of the box. He glanced over his shoulder to see Danny place a bottle of red wine on the table.

"Steve," Danny said, almost hesitant now, "do you have a corkscrew?"

"Try the second drawer on the left." He heard Danny rummaging through the contents. Hopefully he hadn't thrown anything unusual in there.

Grace had picked up on the change in mood. From her perch on the table, she studied Steve with avid interest. He caught her eye and smiled, hoping to relieve the tension gripping his gut.

"I never saw anyone do it that way before," she said.

Steve's stomach dropped. Great, now he had to defend himself to an eight year-old. "Yeah, well, I guess—"

"Daddy says you're really smart."

"He does?" He perked up again.

"He says you know so much because you were in the Navy and did lots of important things to help people."

He slid his gaze to Danny, who shook his head in denial, but Steve knew Grace never lied. He finished opening the cans with a smile, feeling ten pounds lighter.  

Several minutes later and another mission accomplished. "Done!" he announced with great relief. He rolled his aching neck and carried the opened cans to the stove.

Danny slipped in from his left and held his hand, palm down, just above the bottom of the pan. "It feels hot so the oil's ready—that's how you tell. Go ahead and add the peppers."

Steve dumped them in, flinching at the sudden sizzle, then gave the pan a few quick shakes to spread them out.

"Now get a spoon to stir with," Danny said, laying a gentle hand on his arm and meeting his eyes. "A real spoon, right, not a rifle barrel or a broken ship's mast?"

But he said it with such amused affection that Steve just grinned back. The knot between his shoulders started to unwind. He grabbed a long wooden spoon from another drawer, then hesitated with his hand poised over the pan."I'm sure there's a right way to do this...."

"I'll show you!" Grace said. "I'll be your stew chef!"

He shared a puzzled glance with Danny, who finally translated. "That's _sous_ chef, Monkey. Like we saw on TV."

"Oh, yeah, I remember. That's who I'll be and Steve can be the top chef."

He liked the sound of that. He dragged a chair to the stove while Danny helped Grace hop off the table, then offered his arm for leverage as she scrambled up to stand on Steve's right.

"Just do it like this." Again, she wrapped her soft, small hand over his and guided the spoon around the pan. "Not too fast or they fly right out," she said earnestly, leaving the distinct impression that she'd done that before herself. "But you can't let them burn, either."

"Got it." Their heads touched as they worked together, a few stray strands of her silky hair tickling his nose. She smelled like strawberries and childhood. He couldn't remember the last time he felt such a rush of pure contentment.

After another ten minutes of tending to the peppers, Grace declared that it was time for the next step. "Now we add all the other stuff." She counted off on her fingers. "Meat, tomatoes, spices—oh and Daddy puts wine in, it's his secret ingredient." She paused, her face twisted in concentration. "And a pinch of sugar."

"Sugar?" _Uh oh._

"You don't have sugar?" she asked with surprise, easily reading his panic. "Everyone has sugar."

"I've got something _like_ sugar, except it's better for you because—"

"Forget it," Danny said from his left, shaking his head with an air of great offense. "No chemicals will touch this masterpiece. We'll do without." He glanced at Steve's face then elbowed him in the side. "Don't worry, it's fine. We really don't need it."

 _Damn_. How many other important things were missing from this house? He made a mental note to buy sugar the next time he went shopping.  And a can opener, more knives, maybe a better frying pan—

"Steve?" Grace nudged his shoulder. "We're not done yet."

"Right, let's go." The kitchen was getting hot again. He felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of his shirt under the heavy apron.

Under her direction, he tipped in the sausage, followed by the tomatoes and a dash of salt and pepper. Danny supervised him as he added two generous splashes of wine. The bottle's label was in Italian but he recognized the varietal.   _Montepulciano d’Abruzzo_. Since when was Danny such a wine connoisseur? "Hey, this is the good kind."

"Of course," Danny replied, lifting his chin with pride. "It better be, we're drinking it with dinner. Now move it, we don't have all night here."

Grace handed him the oregano and basil, each with "Imported from Italy" stamped on the jar, then watched him like a hawk to ensure he shook in the correct amount. He raised an eyebrow at Danny. "Where _did_ you get all this, anyway?"

"Chin knew a guy, who knew another guy, who knows a place, way out in one of those towns I can't pronounce." Danny shrugged. "It may or may not have all been imported legally, but even I know when not to ask stupid questions."

"Copy that." He smirked at Danny who grinned right back. Grace beamed at both of them. Maybe the night wasn't a total disaster after all.

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur.

Steve had executed combat missions with fewer maneuvers than tonight's dinner. First, he dragged out his largest pot for the pasta, filled it with water, added a shake of salt, and set it on a back burner to boil, while continuing to stir the sauce and keep it at the right temperature.

Next, Danny pulled out a hand tool and block of imported cheese from his seemingly bottomless box of supplies and instructed Steve on the finer points of grating fresh Parmesan. While Steve struggled to meet Danny's exacting standards, he endured a lecture on the different origins and varieties of Italian cheeses, and which were acceptable and which were considered a sacrilege for a Sunday dinner.

Then the water was boiling and it was time to start the pasta. It was an imported brand, of course, in a long cellophane wrapper with an Italian name on the front. Luckily one set of directions was in English. He read them aloud.

"Rapid boil, check, salt, check, cook for ten minutes, got it. And then throw a strand against the wall and when it sticks it's done, right?"

Danny's mask of horror was comical. Grace's squeal nearly deafened him. He bravely maintained a straight face until Danny began sputtering incoherently, then finally broke out in laughter.

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He held up his hands in defense, amazed to see Danny speechless for once. "Come on, I'm not that dense. I do know how to cook pasta, even if I eat it with sauce from a jar. Start testing it about thirty seconds before it's supposed to be ready, then pull it off the heat when it's _al dente_. To the tooth." He touched his thumb and forefinger to his lips in a kiss.

Grace clapped. "Steve, you know Italian!" Her eyes glowed with admiration. He felt like a million bucks.

Even Danny seemed impressed, though he tried to cover it with a cough and an exaggerated glance at his watch. "Can we move on please? We'll be eating at midnight at this rate. Throw it in the pot, McGarrett."

Steve tossed in the pasta with a flourish and a "Mangiamo, bella donna!", drawing another delighted clap from Grace, then set the oven timer. It took him a full minute of stirring before he realized he was actually enjoying himself.

The final step was setting the table.

As Steve hauled  dishes out from the cabinet, Danny stood behind him, loudly correcting his choices and forcing him to remove almost every piece he owned until Danny was satisfied with the final selection.

"Plating, Steven, plating. Presentation is a key part of the meal, don't you know that?"

"I do now, whether I wanted to or not," he muttered with a roll of his eyes, earning him a smack on the shoulder.

Grace watched them with a huge grin. "You two are _silly_ ," she said with absolute conviction. At least that was better than being mocked, so he let it go. "Daddy, when are we eating, I'm _starving_."

"Soon, babe, soon." Danny grazed her cheek with his finger, then turned to inspect Steve, eyes sweeping him from stem to stern. "You've, uh, established your cred as a pasta-maker, so why don't you run and change while Gracie and I finish up here."

"Change?" Steve stripped off the apron, then looked down at his clothes. Loose, comfortable shirt with the Navy logo, faded shorts cut down from a damaged pair of cargo pants. Clean and presentable, perfect for a lazy Sunday around the house. "Why would I change? This is fine. I wore the apron so I didn't get any—"

"Stop." Danny held a hand up to Steve's face. "Stop right there and listen to me. You have company over. Guests. In your house. For Sunday dinner. So you are going to act civilized for once in your life. Now get your butt up there and put on something decent!"

God, Danny could be so damn bossy. "So now you're the fashion police?"

Danny stepped closer and plucked at his shirt. "You're wearing a _wife beater_!  And do you know _why_ they're called that?"

The flash of anger was back. "You're crazy! It's a _muscle shirt_ , Danny, you don't know—"

"Upstairs!"

He opened his mouth to counterattack, then snapped it shut again.

Over Danny's shoulder, Grace wore an identical expression of distaste, her forehead crinkled up in an apprehensive frown. He was used to that look on his partner in response to his many violations of correct police procedure and driving technique and all the other areas in which Danny believed he fell short of perfection. By now it was mere background noise, an irritating thread woven into the fabric of their partnership. He'd never admit it, but it really didn't even bother him anymore.

But to see that look on _Grace's_ face, to feel the sting of _her_ disapproval....

He bounded up the stairs two at a time.

Once in his bedroom he moved as quickly as possible, grabbing a sky blue polo shirt—because Catherine once said blue made him look _approachable_ , whatever the hell that meant—and a fresh pair of tan cargo pants, the closest thing he owned to khakis. He then rushed into the bathroom for a sketchy clean-up job, scrubbing the splattered sauce from his arms and face.

Less than five minutes later, he raced back down to the main floor.

He first poked his head into the empty kitchen, noting the cooking pots and utensils neatly stacked by the sink and the trail of crumbs on the floor. He then hurried on to the doorway leading to the dining room.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

In the short time he was gone, Danny and Grace had transformed the little-used dining area into a cozy Italian bistro.

They sat next to each other, heads bowed together, her musical giggles a counterpoint to his soft murmurs. The small table almost overflowed with colorful plates of food, bowls of sauce and cheese, wine glasses—two large ones and a smaller cordial glass for Grace—and a steaming basket of bread.

Candlelight flickered along the sides of the room, casting dancing shadows against walls stained purple and gold from the setting sun. A light breeze blowing in through the open windows carried the sweet scent of Hawaiian flowers and sea air, which mixed with the heavier richness of olive oil and peppers into an intoxicating perfume. From somewhere in the background rose the faint, achingly tender strains of Frank Sinatra.

And he knew it was a trick of his mind, a figment of his imagination, the aftermath of raw emotion and fatigue, but just for a second, behind Danny and Grace, he swore he could see the shimmering image of his mother, wearing her favorite apron, the one with the pink and orange hibiscus flowers, bearing the white serving platter he had searched for in vain for two weeks after he returned home from the Navy.

He swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat, steadying himself with a hand braced against the doorframe. She smiled at him, in that patient way she always did when he was late to dinner.

 _Hurry_ , she seemed to say, _hurry_.

And then in a blink of the eye she was gone, dissolving into the past like a puff of smoke.

It was another long moment before the strength returned to his legs. He lingered in the shadows as he took in the scene before him, absorbing its comfort and warmth and sheer sense of _rightness_.

It wasn't Hawaii or New Jersey, it was neither or both or somewhere in between. But he knew exactly what to call it.

 _Home._   
~~~~~~~

 **Epilogue**

Two Fridays later, Danny sat with head in hand, elbow braced on the desk, blearily working though an endless stack of paperwork and counting off the minutes until he could slip out and unwind for the first time in a week.

With his guard down, he didn't notice Steve slide into the office until he had materialized in front of the desk, arms crossed and that annoying  smirk on his face. "Hey Danny, what's going on?"

Danny rolled his eyes up, too tired to lift his head. "I'll assume that's a rhetorical question, otherwise I really am going to send you to that detective's course we talked about."

"You talked about. I didn't listen."

"Whatever. Look—"

"Here." Steve tossed something in his direction. It flew through the air and pancaked on the desk with a loud snap. "Forget something?" 

Even upside down he recognized the cover. "That looks like my Sinatra CD. What are you doing with it?"

"I found it under the sofa cushion when I was cleaning."

"You were cleaning your _sofa cushions_? Is that a Navy requirement, everything has to be shipshape at all times? What, like you're worried about a spot inspection from the Joint Chiefs? Because I think—"

"I don't care what—"

"You keep it." He slid the CD back across the desk. "That way, if you ever get another crack at Catherine, you can impress her with the real Smooth Dog instead of your pathetic imitation." He pumped his fist a few times in one of those crude gestures of Jerseytude that always pissed Steve off for some reason. 

And right on schedule, there was that face, the one with the side of his mouth curled up in disgust under the outraged frown. Beautiful.

Steve slid the CD right back. "Then why don't _you_ keep it, you're the one who can't—"

"I don't need it, my friend." He sat up and threw his chin up and his shoulders back. "I _am_ Sinatra, just younger and better-looking."

"That's crazy! And you can't sing worth a damn, I heard you that time in the car."

"And that hardly matters when it's time to get down to business, now does it?" He threw in another fist pump just for the sheer pleasure of seeing that face again.

" _Jesus_ you're annoying."

"Right back at you babe." Stalemate _._

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, took a deep breath, then parked himself on the edge of the desk. The smirk was gone, replaced by the _Sincere Boy Scout_ face. "Look, I really came in to ask you something.

 _Here we go. _   
Danny leaned back in his chair, twirling the pen between his fingers as he watched Steve fidget. "Why don't you cut to the chase? It's late, we're both tired and I have to get ready for Grace."

"So you have Grace this weekend."

"Did I not just say that? Are you deaf now? And does the Navy know? Cause I'm sure—"

"Enough!" Steve stopped him with a raised hand. It was eerie how they were starting to copy each other's moves. "I was just wondering, if you didn't already have plans, maybe you and Grace would like to come over on Sunday."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Danny was quiet for a moment, considering. "Well...she hasn't been to the beach in a while and she's been bugging me to go, and I could pick up a pack of burgers, maybe a couple of steaks if you—"

"No."

"No what?"

"No, I don't want you to pick up burgers or steaks."

"Okay, you want to do take-out, that's fine, it won't kill Grace to—"

"No!"

And Danny really looked at him then, reading the tenseness in his face and the wariness in his eyes that belied the casual pose. 

Steve glowered back and shifted his gaze to a point across the room. "I'm not talking about a beach party, or a picnic or cook-out or anything like that."

He waited, instinct telling him to be patient.

"I was just thinking...maybe...." Steve heaved a long sigh. "I'd like you to come for dinner. I mean, I'll cook dinner and you come over. Both of you. On Sunday." 

He wasn't sure he heard that right. "You're cooking."

"Yes."

"And I'm supposed to bring...what?"

"Nothing. Okay, maybe the wine, you're good at that."

Danny's eyebrows flew up surprise. Steve was _praising_ him? 

Something was wrong here, very wrong. He shifted into detective mode, filtering the clues and observations into a pattern that made sense. 

If this was another con, it was a damn good one. Except....

Nothing in Steve's expression suggested deceit or misdirection. Granted, Danny had fallen for the sting last time, but he had been distracted by that stupid game, maybe even a little too eager to prove himself capable in an arena outside of Steve's expertise. 

But _this_ face, now wiped clean of _Sincere Boy Scout_ and replaced by something else altogether, _this_ face...he wasn't sure _what_ it was, maybe a cross between _Hey a Grenade_ and _What Search Warrant,_ except that was wrong too....

Then it struck him like a thunderbolt. 

He knew where he'd seen that look before. It was on Grace, when she wanted something so badly that she was afraid to ask for it, like for her birthday or Christmas, or right after the divorce when she was really hurting and needed something that meant the whole world to her....

And then Steve finally turned back, looking for his answer, and it was all _right there_ , transparent as glass, his entire heart in his eyes, and Danny was as helpless to resist _that_ as he was Grace.

"Yes," he said, "we'd love to come."

At that, Steve lit up like a rocket, his face melting into that impossibly wide, ridiculously goofy grin he wore when he was truly happy, and Danny was stunned by the force of it as it tugged at his own heart a little, twisting his insides into a knot.

"I just have one question," Steve said, his eyes shining with relief and gratitude.

"Yes?" 

"So you and Gracie, you like carrots?"

**Author's Note:**

> With a great debt of gratitude to alamo_girl80 for breaking my beta virginity and showing me how much fun it is to collaborate (who knew?), for reviewing and supporting and cheerleeding, and for pushing me to cowgirl up when I got nervous.
> 
> ~~~~~~~
> 
> If this inspired you to get all Jersey up in your own kitchen, please note that Danny left out the garlic and handful of crushed red pepper in deference to Grace's lighter palate.


End file.
